


Gotta Be Straight With You, Man

by SaltAndBurn (AlyssiaInWonderland)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bisexual Character, Brotherly Bonding, Comfort/Angst, Coming Out, Demisexual Character, Don’t copy to another site, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Pansexual Character, Past Child Abuse, Protective Sam Winchester, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 22:21:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17353694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlyssiaInWonderland/pseuds/SaltAndBurn
Summary: “Words are confusing as hell, Sammy.” Dean says, letting his head tip back until it rests on the wall.“Yeah?” Sam looks at him sideways, idly curious.“Yeah.” Dean agrees, taking a draught of his beer. “There are so many, and they all have different definitions, and it’s stupid, and I don’t get it, and I don’t think I ever will.” He says, cursing his inability to use the words confusing him. He doesn’t know how to be less oblique, but he doesn’t know how to be straight about it either – and isn’t that what it all boils down to anyway?





	Gotta Be Straight With You, Man

“Words are confusing as hell, Sammy.” Dean says, letting his head tip back until it rests on the wall.

“Yeah?” Sam looks at him sideways, idly curious.

“Yeah.” Dean agrees, taking a draught of his beer. “There are so many, and they all have different definitions, and it’s stupid, and I don’t get it, and I don’t think I ever will.” He says, cursing his inability to use the words confusing him. He doesn’t know how to be less oblique, but he doesn’t know how to be straight about it either – and isn’t that what it all boils down to anyway?

“Okay.” Sam has turned his head now, facing Dean. His posture is open, inviting further elaboration, if Dean cares to try. But he’s not pushy. He just sits there and accepts Dean’s chaotic mess, and it feels like those times when he’d hold Sammy in his lap when they were younger, when Sammy’s limbs were clumsy and gangly, and Dean would have to stay perfectly still so Sammy could gradually organise his arms and legs into some semblance of not-going-to-hit-Dean-in-the-face. Except now, the positions are reversed, and Sam’s holding Dean’s tangle of emotions and letting him slowly organise them enough to be understood.

“Dammit, Sammy. I don’t know how to do this.”

“Well, you could start with using those words you’re sulking about?” Sam’s suggestion is gentle, his smile quirking at the edges of his lips, even though his eyes are more concerned than amused.

“I’m not sulking! I’m a grown-ass man!” Dean retorts, the laughter easing the tightness in his chest.

“Right,” Sam smirks, a huff of deep amusement rumbling in his chest. “That’s why I’m still taller than you.”

“Shut up, bitch, I’m still older than you.”

“Whatever, jerk.” They really are both grown-ass men, and they both giggle anyway. “Really, though, Dean. What’s been eating you? ‘Cause you’ve been on edge all week, and I have no clue why, and if I didn’t know you well enough to know you’re not gonna skip out on me, I’d be sure you were thinking about running. And I know it’s hard on you, and I know you’re trying, but man, you gotta let me in.”

“What if,” Dean says, and he swallows, the anxiety spiking right back through his body. “What if what I got to say means you might skip out on me? ‘Cause you’re right, I ain’t running from you. Don’t think I could if I tried, not now I’ve got you back. But what if this is something – something you might not get, or forgive?” Dean hates the way his voice wavers. It reveals too much, makes him vulnerable when he already feels exposed.

“Hey, Dean, listen to me.” Sam rests a hand on Dean’s shoulder. It’s warm and solid, reassuring him that he cares through the medium of touch. “Is this something that you’d judge me for?”

Dean opens his mouth, and no sound comes out. He hasn’t felt so mute for years. He shakes his head instead, biting his lip hard.

“Okay. So trust that I won’t judge you, either. This whole brother thing goes both ways.”

He wants to tell Sam, he wants to see his brother’s face smiling at him and telling him it’s going to be okay. But whenever he tries, his throat closes up, and he ends up speaking in stupid riddles, or not at all. He takes a deep breath, tries to speak again. 

What emerges is a hoarse, broken sound, and he clamps his mouth shut, putting down his beer bottle with a loud thunk and pressing himself against the wall. He closes his eyes, breaths coming fast and harsh. He hears the clink of Sam’s bottle on the floor, and then the hand on his shoulder moves, wraps around his back. Dean feels awkward, stiff, leaning rigidly against the wall. Sam’s thumb strokes over his jacket gently, his arm tugging Dean closer. He hears Sam softly counting out breaths in time with his thumb, and he relaxes inch by inch into Sam’s shoulder.

“Sorry for freaking.” He mumbles, after a moment. His voice is weak and thready, but Sam seems to hear him anyway. He feels Sam’s chest expand and release as he lets out a deep breath.

“It’s nothing, man.”

“No, it’s something. It’s more than something.” His voice is stronger again, to his relief. “Can’t believe I lost my freaking voice again. I just – I get around certain topics, and my voice just stops, and its bullshit!” To his horror, even though his voice is back, tears start to prick at his eyes. Crying is the last thing he needs, because anything messing with his voice right now would probably make him spiral again. He’s ashamed of how glad he is that Sam’s holding on to him. Without it, he thinks he might break apart entirely.

“It’s pretty rough, I get that.” Sam says, voice low and calm – how is he so calm? “But it’s not forever, and you’re pushing through it. Hell, I’m proud of you for getting this far.”

“Shut up. It’s my job to be proud of you, Sammy. Bitch.” Dean bites the words out past the emotions surging through him.

“How about we be proud of each other instead, huh?” Sam grins, relaxing his tight hold on Dean.

“Yeah, sure.” Dean doesn’t roll his eyes, because that would mean he’s acting just like Sammy, and he is okay with trying to draw even with his brother, but he draws the line at acquiring his bratty mannerisms. Instead, he shuffles, so he is supporting his own weight. He doesn’t let Sam’s arm move from around his shoulders, though. It’s like a physical reassurance that his brother is confident he won’t leave; no matter what Dean says.

“You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to.” Sam offers, turning to look at Dean again.

“No, but I do want to.” Dean looks resolutely forward as he feels tears coming back again. “You’re all about not pushing me, and letting me progress at my own pace, and that’s great. But this is my pace. It’s just that my dumbass vocal chords won’t let me.”

“Okay.”

“I have no idea what I’m doing, Sammy.” Dean admits, closing his eyes again. He wraps a hand around his abandoned bottle, grounding himself in the coolness of the glass.

“I’m getting that.” Sam seems amused, and Dean turns his head sharply to glare at him. “Hey, calm down, I’m sorry! No joking about your emotional repression, got it.” At that, Dean smiles reluctantly, and Sam nods, satisfied. “How about we play a questions game?”

“What are we, twelve?” Dean snorts, unsure how this is relevant.

“I can ask you yes or no questions, and you have to answer.” Sam takes another sip of his beer as he waits.

“Okay.” Dean says, cautiously. This seems far too off-topic for it to not be some devious plan he’s cooked up. But he figures since he does want to explain himself, going along with it is the better option than cycling through freak-outs and selective mutism until they both fall asleep.

“Usually stuff that gets you to stop talking is about family in some way. So. Is this to do with Dad?” Dean flinches, licks his lips. He doesn’t know how to answer.

“I – kinda – I mean…” He trails off, helplessly. “Sammy, does it have to be just – it’s not so simple as-“

“Yes or no, Dean.” Sam is resolute, and Dean subsides.

“Fine. Then. Yes. I guess.” Dean gets the words out, and frowns, because it’s not really about Dad, dammit, and now Sam probably has the wrong end of the stick, and he’s gonna be mad at Dad when this is all Dean’s internalised crap rather than stupid Daddy issues.

“Is it something Dad did to you?” Sam asks, cautiously.

“No!” Dean snaps, and then his throat closes up, because he’s still kind of lying. He can’t talk about this in black and white. It doesn’t work that way in his brain, and it’s gonna confuse the hell out of Sam. “No, it’s not because of something he did to me.” The clarification sounds better to his ears, even though it breaks the rules.

“Is it how Dad reacted to something you did, then?” Sam tries, and Dean bites his lip again.

“Yeah.” He nods, tightly, and feels Sam’s fingers start to stroke over his jacket again, gently.

“What you did – I’m guessing it relates to the whole, words you were trying to think about definitions for, right?”

“Yeah.” Dean licks his lips, takes a sip of beer to take away the roughness in his voice.

“How old were you whe-” Sam breaks off, clearly realising that asking an age isn’t allowed inside his own rules. Dean rides the wave of amusement at the sheer discontent in Sam’s face, opens his mouth.

“Fourteen.” He says, and his voice doesn’t tremble. “You make the best bitch-faces, Sammy.” He adds. Taking refuge in the small details that let him laugh is all he has right now.

“You’re such a jerk.” Sam rolls his eyes, looking down at their boots as he thinks. “Is it something you think I’d remember? The way Dad reacted, I mean, ‘cause obviously it’s not something I actually saw, or you wouldn’t need to be telling me now, right?”   
  
“Yeah, right on both counts.” Dean shifts uncomfortably.

“Hey, was it that time when Dad got mad when you took me to the ER? You know, because of the-”   
  
“The goblin attack? Dude, no. Just...no.” Dean almost laughs, because he remembers that. It hadn’t been half as amusing at the time as it was in hindsight. He’d been wild with the fear that the goblin’s claws would give Sam rabies, because there had been a class notice about it. Of course, now he knew that their skin secreted an acid that killed off anything that tried to infect it. He can’t regret that Sam hadn’t honed in as fast as he had expected; reminiscing was usually morose, but some things were just plain funny, if he let his humour go a little dark.

Sam makes a series of thoughtful expressions that fly right past Dean’s interpretation abilities, and then opens his mouth again.

“Is it related to that time when you’d just gotten your own room, and you left with Dad, and came back beat to hell?” Sam sounds cautious with this, treading delicately, and Dean isn’t sure if he appreciates that or resents it.

“I mean - it’s not - okay, yeah. But not quite - dammit, this yes or no thing is hard! It’s gonna give you false leads.” Dean’s frustrated with the system they’re working in, even though it’s helpful. He thinks he can see where Sam’s thoughts are headed, and he doesn’t like it.

“Dean,” Sam’s voice is painfully soft, and yeah, Dean thinks he knows where this is going. “These words...have you been reading up about different kinds of abuse?”

There’s something uniquely frustrating about being treated so kindly, seen-through so well, and still not actually getting to the issue he’s aiming for.

“Jesus, Sam, that is so not what I’m trying to talk to you about right now.” Dean can feel his breathing quickening again, and Sam grips at his shoulder, harder than Dean thinks is strictly necessary. He can’t blame him for it, though. And he’s pretty sure that Sam’s noticed his answer wasn’t a hard no.

“Okay. We can come back to that some other time?” Sam’s still being that blend of coaxing and firm that makes Dean want to hug him and punch him at the same time.

“Fine, Samantha, we can get all chick-flick about that crap another time. Happy? Now can we get to the part where it’s actually relevant?” Dean snaps. He’s getting tired of the way they keep dancing around what he wants to say. He’s been tired of his own inability to talk about it for so long.

“You’re not giving me much to work with here, alright?” Sam snaps right back in what seems to be autopilot, and it makes Dean feel weirdly better about it. Even if Sammy’s being a floppy-haired empath, they’re still them.

“Yeah, I know. What’s wrong, your law degree ain’t got a module for talking to jerk brothers?”   
  
“You know it doesn’t.” Sam rolls his eyes again, and the normality of it sinks into Dean’s bones, comforting him. “So, the closest I got was the part where you had your own room for the first time. Wait - is this about when Dad promised he’d give us separate rooms?”   
  
“Yep. Nailed it.” Dean smiles weakly, because they’re getting there. Still, a long way to go, if the pace of their progress currently is anything to go by. He thinks this might be the most drawn-out way anyone in the history of the planet has ever tried to say two simple words. Three, if he wants to get technical about it. Lots more, if he tries to actually express himself properly. He takes a breath, controls his spiralling thoughts. Waits for Sam’s next question.

“Wasn’t that the night you had that kid around? Aaron? I remember him ‘cause he backed me up on getting vegetable pizza and you actually let him. But - I was asleep for most of it.” Sam seems actively curious now, and Dean can tell he’s trying not to seem too interested. It’s sweet, in a weird sort of way. Like Sam’s trying to fill out the big brother role and let Dean be small. It’s distinctly uncomfortable. Nice, too

“Aiden.” Dean corrects Sam, and despite the situation, he manages to feel fond. “He loved rabbit food about as much as you do. Freak.”   
  
“So. Something happened, with you and Aiden, or just you, that Dad reacted badly to.” Sam’s making a statement rather than asking, but Dean nods tightly anyway.

“Yeah.”   
  
“It must have been real bad, for you to actually want out. I remember being weirded out that I didn’t hear you two fighting. Had to have been hellishly big for him to have to bribe you with getting your own room. I don’t remember any other time he had to buy you out.” Sam is looking at his feet again, a slight flush on his cheeks.

“Wait, what? He told you I wanted out?” Dean can’t help how sharp his voice is, or how panic-ridden he sounds. It’s one thing to know what really happened, but it’s another to have Sam recite such a bald-faced lie, with such a look of shame.

“You didn’t?” Sam is watching him carefully, as if Dean might get up and run at any second. Dean wants to, but he wants to grind the lies their Dad told Sammy to the dust even more.

“Hell no! What kind of a dumbass lie - he told you he bribed me back with the lure of getting my own room? Seriously? What a jacked up pile of crap!” Dean tames his hand movements, because he’s worried he’ll hit Sam in the face by accident. “Jesus, Sammy. Like I’d ever run out on you and leave you. Even if I was pissed - which I wasn’t, for the record. I was scared to hell, and the first time I got my own room, that time I really was angry, and that’s why I got beat, but - Sammy, trust me. Getting my own room was not voluntary.” He starts to feel some of that old rage curling around his heart. He remembers it; so well it could have been yesterday. The fierce frustration and burning shame that carried him through the first week of solitude at night. Until by unspoken agreement Sam would sneak into his room if he felt scared, or if Dad was passed out drunk, or on a hunt.

“If it wasn’t voluntary, then why?” Sam asks, and Dean can see their rules pressing Sam’s lips together, drawing his brow into a frown. It’s an endearing echo of how Sam used to stare at his maths homework; his little brother attacking a puzzle until all the pieces fit.

Dean shakes his head, because he has no idea how to begin answering that question. It should be simple, but as ever, it feels so much more complex than it has any right to.

“Dean, I -” Sammy’s face clears, and Dean thinks his heart has stopped, blood rushing in his ears. “Oh God, Dean. When you came in to get your stuff I thought you were trying to leave, but Dad made you, didn’t he? Because...because he-” Sam breaks off, his soft eyes wide and horrified. “You and Aiden weren’t just friends, were you?”

“Yeah.” Dean hears his voice through the static in his brain. He feels disconnected from his body. His heart, somehow still beating, and Sam’s arm tightening around him; it felt unreal, at once too awful and too good to be true. “We were just fooling around. Hell, we were barely kissing. I’d done worse with worse, but...Dad saw us and he flipped. Man, I’ve barely seen him so angry, before or since. He-” Dean cuts off, takes a deep breath, because his voice is wavering and his vision is too. “He was gonna hit Aiden so I told him to run, got between them, and Dad started in on me, and all I could think was how stupid I’d been to even think about bringing Aiden to the freaking motel room. It was my fault.”   
  
“How can you even think that? It was not your fault!”

“Dude, don’t even think about trying that touchy feely crap with me right now. I knew, I freaking knew Dad would be pissed, and I took Aiden home anyway because I was too damn selfish to not. I didn’t just put myself in danger, Sammy. I risked Aiden, and I risked you, and I never saw Aiden again and I couldn’t be in your room anymore, and it was bullshit and stupid but I should have known better, dammit!” Dean’s surprised by how intense the anger still feels. The self-recrimination is buried deep within him. It feels like he’s dragging it up, clawing and kicking from the earth, like the dirt-stains on his godforsaken soul. He sobs, but it’s dry. His eyes are burning with the lack of tears.

“I’m so sorry, Dean.” Sam’s still holding onto him, his voice gentle and pained, and Dean has no idea what to do with that. “God, I’m so, so sorry.”   
  
“It wasn’t you who screwed up. It was me. I knew, I think some part of me wanted it to happen, because it was just this giant thing hanging over my head, and I wanted it over with.” Dean realises that was true as he says it. He’s never processed that before, let alone said it out loud.

“Did he - was that why he beat you, the next motel we were at?” Sam asks. For once, Dean’s grateful for how gentle his brother is.

“No. Yes. Sort of? I suck at this game.” He smiles, weakly, and looks up at Sam. He nods in reassurance, thumb still stroking over his shoulder encouragingly. “He didn’t beat me up, exactly. Took me to a graveyard, made me dig up the bones and salt’n’burn them alone. Didn’t raise a finger to help. Gave me some dumbass lecture about how - how we kill unnatural things for a reason, how they don’t know they’re bad, how they hurt anything they touch. How being a fa- liking guys was unnatural, so I couldn’t t- couldn’t touch you.” 

Dean can’t hold back the sobs anymore. They wrench from his throat like they’re demons being exorcised by him finally verbalising the memories, and he berates himself for his weakness even as he buries himself in Sam’s arms. He clutches at Sam’s t-shirt, and sobs, one arm crushed uncomfortably against his side, but he doesn’t care. All that matters is Sam’s arms around him, clinging tight and touching him, touching him like he’d never felt truly allowed to since he was fourteen and so very alone in his new, empty room. They’ve always hugged, always been tactile. It’s only now that Dean recognises how stolen all those moments felt. And how to have Sam still want to hold him, even now he knows, burns through his pain and horror and leaves him feeling slightly more whole than before.

Slowly, Dean feels the emotions unlock in his chest, and he can breathe again. He subsides, unclenching his fist from Sam’s shirt and using it to wipe away the tears that aren’t sticking to the fabric. He feels Sam’s arms loosen, and he lifts his head again, wriggling until his head is leaning on Sam’s shoulder. He thinks about trying to speak, but can’t bring himself to. He just waits, until Sam starts to talk again.

“Thank you for telling me.” Sam’s voice sounds rough, and when Dean flicks his gaze up to check, he is startled to see tear-tracks on his brother’s face too. “I just - thank you. For trusting me with that.”

“Thanks for not hating me, then, if we’re going round with the gratitude crap.” Dean tries not to let on just how much he thought that was a possibility, even though he’s pretty sure Sam could tell.

“Dude, of course I don’t hate you. What happened - hell, I’m pissed.” Sam’s eyes flash with a deep, intense anger that unnerves Dean, and he can’t help but flinch a little. “Not at you!” Sam adds, hastily, and Dean relaxes again, collapsing back against Sam’s shoulder. “I’m mad at Dad.”   
  
“Sammy, he-”   
  
“Don’t give me any of your usual defending him shit, Dean. He hurt you - he made you not share a room with me because you kissed a boy! It was homophobic, and wrong, and he was a complete-”   
  
“Sam! I - he - it wasn’t - he didn’t mean -” The habit of defending their father is so deeply ingrained, he’s objecting before he even realises he’s doing it.

“Cut it out, man. Dad was fucking wrong okay?” Dean’s protests are shocked into silence as much by Sam actually swearing than anything else. “He was fucking wrong, and it was fucked up that he got some ghosts to beat the crap out of you, and his idea that being gay is somehow unnatural and needs to be purged or repressed can fuck the fuck off!” Sam’s wrapped his arms tight around Dean again, and he wants to complain, but his throat feels scratchy, and he’s cried enough for one night.

“Sammy, I get that you’re amped up and shit, but I need to freaking breathe!” He’s muffled by the embrace, but it has the intended effect. Sam’s grip loosens just enough to let Dean feel more comfortable - if he can manage that when he’s curled up into his little brother’s side like a weak, whiny kid.

“Sorry, dude.” Sam says, and his voice is shaking. Dean can’t tell if it’s anger, pain, sadness, or all of them at once. “I just...Jesus, Dean. You - you’ve had to carry all of that crap, alone. It shaped your freaking life, and I never knew. I knew some stuff that happened was messed up, but I didn’t know what, and it drove me crazy as a kid, not knowing, and now...I guess I’m trying to say that I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you from it. And that you telling me, it means a lot, you know? Especially ‘cause at the start - you said - you said it was something you wouldn’t judge me for.” Sam’s crying openly now, and Dean bites his lip to stifle the urge to make some comment designed to break the moment.

“I’m sorry, too.” Dean says, and abruptly he feels overwhelmingly tired. “‘Cause man, I couldn’t protect you right either. Didn’t know how, except to work the broken system we had going. Still don’t have a clue. And I guess - what I’m trying to say is - you too, huh?”

“Yeah. Dad never caught me, though. I lived the college experimentation cliche.” Sam says it like he’s not sure if he’s proud or ashamed of it. Dean thinks it should be only pride.

“Bisexual.” He blurts out the word, and even though Sam figured it out, actually saying it feels like another layer of relief. “I’m pretty sure I’m bisexual. Though honestly, I guess pan would also work. Or a couple other terms. I meant what I said about it all being confusing as hell.”   
  
“Yeah, I get that.” Sam’s voice is soft, understanding him thoroughly. “Hell, it took me ages to pick a label, and often I don’t even like using the ones I think work. Pan fits, sometimes, I guess. Demisexual, too. Fluid? Queer?” Sam spreads his hands, trying to indicate how he struggles to encompass the entire spectra of sexuality and his experience in such limited vocabulary. “Mostly, I just kinda let myself be me.”

“I’m so fucking proud of you, Sammy.” Dean whispers because otherwise his voice will break. He doesn’t know how else to express the unspeakable layers of emotion he’s feeling. He pictures Sam at college, probably looking up words online well before he actually kissed a guy. He thinks about the time, and processing, and strength that it must have taken to get to the point where he could just be content with being himself. He’s cried enough tears for the year, but he supposes he does have a lot of making up to do, emotion-wise, and apparently that starts tonight. Sam smiles at him, tentatively, and Dean can tell he understands what he meant.

“I’m proud of you, too, you know.” Sam stays with his arm wrapped around Dean, and finally takes another sip of his beer. Dean follows suit.

They sit in silence for a while, just existing together. Them and the world, and for once Dean feels like maybe they belong in it. The air around them is cool, but between them, they’re generating enough body heat to stay warm. It’s nice, he realises. To sit with Sam, rather than Sammy. To have a not-so-little little brother, who’s all grown up and who actually understands. He feels, for want of a better term, known. He didn’t know how good it would feel to let it be him and Sam against the world, rather than him against the world with Sammy as his duty. Because Sam had never really been a job - he’d been a vulnerable kid, and Dean had stepped up because he was older and because he could. And that had been unfair - cruel to the both of them. And now, facing the world together, letting Sam carry him sometimes, and trying to level the field and work as equals? It was worth all the chick flick moments in the world.

“So.” Dean breaks the silence. “Guess we both just came out.”   
  
“Yeah.” Sam turns, and his grin is blinding. Dean sees Sammy in it, in the childish joy at connection that his brother never lost. But he sees Sam, too, who is happy to have been allowed to help.

Dean feels himself grin back. Something fizzy and light is in his chest, and he thinks he remembers it as happiness. “Awesome.” He says, and he hopes his grin has just as much kid in it as Sam’s.

“Awesome?” Sam asks, quirking his eyebrow.

“Yep. Awesome.” Dean takes his chance, and lunges, wrapping one arm around Sam’s neck and trapping him, ruffling his hair with the other hand.

Predictably, Sam shrieks his protest, his flailing limbs quickly gaining intent and prying Dean’s grip off him.

“Dude, seriously?” Sam glares at him, and Dean can’t help but smirk at the way Sam’s hair is sticking up.

“Hey, man, your hair, it’s a little messy, you might wanna clear that up.” Dean smiles his broadest, most winning smile at Sam.   
  
“Jerk.” Sam’s annoyance breaks, laughter disrupting his attempts to stay serious.

“Bitch.” Dean returns the insult, happily.

It feels normal, just the same as always, but also totally different. They stumble up, and collapse on the motel’s couch, leaving their beer bottles on the table, not even fully emptied. They argue over who gets to pick what shitty tv they watch, and eventually end with Dr Sexy reruns, as always. Dean getting to be open about how hot the eponymous hero is, that’s new, as is Sam’s crush on the brooding, morally dubious male nurse on the show.

They tease each other, and Sam accuses Dean of taking up too much space on the cushions, and Dean tells Sam it’s because he has to out of self-preservation because Sam’s such a giant.

Tomorrow, they have demons to kill; some actual and some personal. But this moment is a small pocket of peace, and somehow, that’s enough.

**Author's Note:**

> I could not think of a title. So the title is indeed a straight joke. Don't sue me! I once came out to someone b/c I could not resist a straight joke. I'm a disaster. Shhh.
> 
> In other news, I hope this was ok and you enjoyed it!! As ever, comments and kudos feed my dark soul, if you feed me I will love you forever!!! <3


End file.
